


Loyalty Binds Me

by CheshirePrime



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshirePrime/pseuds/CheshirePrime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four scenes from the life of Richard III.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyalty Binds Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valderys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/gifts).



**Servant of the King: June 26, 1461**

The chapel was empty, save for a small figure kneeling in the nave. Brother Christopher stood in the doorway until the sun appeared over the horizon, and then he approached the boy. “Your vigil has ended, my lord Richard. You must come now and be shriven, that your soul may be as pure as your knightly reputation.”

The boy rose slowly to his feet; the friar did not offer him a hand. Richard would be a knight by evening and he must learn to be self-sufficient. So he stood awkwardly for a moment, not quite prepared to suffer the indignity of shaking out his stiffened legs, but not entirely sure they would bear his weight after a night spent kneeling on cold stone. He straightened his shoulders and took a first tentative step toward the friar, exquisitely careful not to disgrace himself by tripping over his numbed feet. The unaccustomed brush of the rough woolen shift against his bare calves distracted him from the sting in his feet and legs, and by the time they reached the chapel door Richard was walking almost normally. He continued to place his feet with care, however. A fall, even a stumble, seemed an ill omen to the boy; to be knighted at such a young age was a symbol of his brother’s trust in him, and Richard was determined that Ned’s trust should not be mislaid.

Brother Christopher led the boy to one of the empty cells used for confession. As they knelt together, the friar allowed himself a moment to study the child who was now the third most powerful figure in England. Richard Plantagenet, soon to be created duke of Gloucester, was small for his eight years, and his hair was darker than the golden curls of his older brothers. Nor did he share his brothers’ easy charm: there was a serious cast to Richard’s features, and his grey eyes met the friar’s gaze with a hint of fear, almost hidden behind the calm set of his mouth and brows. Brother Christopher gave the boy a half-smile he hoped was reassuring, and waited until the apprehension had lifted from Richard’s eyes before he asked, “What sins have you to confess, my child?”

Brother Christopher had seldom had occasion to shrive a child, but he remembered the little sins that had burdened his own boyhood and expected similar answers from young Richard. He had been disrespectful to his nurse, perhaps, or envious of his older brothers. But Richard of Gloucester dropped his eyes and murmured, “I have been unduly prideful, father.”

“In what way, my son?”

Richard raised his eyes to meet the friar’s searching expression. “I have permitted the king my brother to bestow upon me titles I have not earned, and I do not know whether I will become a man worthy of these honors. I fear I have accepted more than I will be able to repay, and that my pride will shame my king and my kinsman.”

Richard’s eloquent face betrayed how much this admission pained him, and Brother Christopher permitted himself to smile kindly. “Is this all that troubles you, my son?”

Now came the expected replies: Richard had been wrathful toward his brother George, he had been disrespectful to the servants who had watched over him in his recently-ended exile, he had fibbed to his new tutor about the extent to which he had maintained his studies while abroad. When Richard had finished, the friar rested a hand on his shoulder. “My child, you must guard your anger closely. Do not allow others to goad you into sin, whether from anger with your brother or shame with your teachers. Be mindful that you are a powerful man now, and remember your duties to those who serve you as well as those whom you serve. We shall pray, in a moment, for God our Father to grant you patience and humility.

“But as for the pride you so rightly fear, my son, let me reassure you that by your worry you prove yourself worthy of the trust your king and kinsman places in you. Serve him to the best of your abilities, and above all be his most loyal subject in all things, and you will repay him a thousand times over.”

Brother Christopher saw the solemn eyes brighten as he brushed the sign of the cross over the boy’s forehead. “ _Ego te absolvo a peccatis tui,_ ” he intoned, and watched Richard leave the room, head held high, bare feet padding silently across the smooth stone.

**Servant of York: June 23, 1483**

It was one thing, Ralph Shaw thought nervously, to know that the newly-appointed Lord Protector of England had attended one’s sermon yesterday. But when the text of that sermon had been “Bastard slips should take no root,” it was very difficult to determine how Lord Richard might feel about the implied insult to his brother’s memory once he’d had some time for reflection. The page who led Shaw through the labyrinthine passages of Bayard’s Castle offered no comment, and Shaw expected nothing else—Richard of Gloucester had a reputation for being fair but very firm; no page in his household would ever be so indiscreet as to gossip with a visitor. The boy stopped outside a narrow door, gave three sharp raps, and pushed it open. “Dr. Shaw, m’lord,” he announced formally, high voice honeyed with the lilting northern accent so common among Richard’s wards.

Shaw took a deep breath before stepping through the doorway, preparing himself for what he anticipated might be a rather unpleasant interrogation. The room in which he found himself was small. The simple furnishings—a table in the corner holding wine and a few cups, the chair Lord Richard occupied, and a square padded settle drawn up to the little fireplace—crowded the room enough that Shaw was glad no one else was present, even as a small part of his mind warned him to be wary of discussions without witnesses. Yet the small, dark man who waved him to the settle and offered wine seemed sanguine enough, and Shaw found himself feeling more relaxed than was perhaps wise until Richard’s grey eyes fixed sharply upon him.

Richard studied Dr. Shaw, uncertain whether the man before him was truly the best candidate for this discussion. Shaw had made it plain that in his opinion, young Edward V was in no way a suitable successor for his father, and therefore the man’s opinion was clearly biased. On the other hand, Shaw was educated in both religious law and political reality, and he had served as advisor to the mayor of London. Moreover, he was much more aware of London’s public opinion than Richard himself. Even if Shaw were less than ideal, his advice was in all likelihood better-informed than that of any other man in England, so Richard poured the wine and began the interview. “Parliament is going to petition me to accept the crown.”

Shaw accepted the cup Richard passed to him. “With all due respect, my lord, I don’t see how they could do anything else. Your brother’s marriage to the Woodville woman was found by Parliament and the Church to be invalid, and therefore Edward’s sons cannot inherit. George’s treasonous actions have barred his son from the throne. Therefore, the crown passes naturally to you. Further, my lord, England has a long memory. Boy kings have proved unstable for at least the last hundred years; the people have grown accustomed to the stability of your brother’s reign and they would not see that balance upset by a child already tainted with bastardy or treason—not when they have a man ready-made for the throne.”

“You tell me nothing I do not already know,” Richard answered, staring into the fire as if he might find some answer hidden in the flames. “God knows I have no cause to love the Woodvilles, Shaw, but I pledged Edward my loyalty. Surely I can owe his son no less?” 

Shaw took a draught of wine, giving himself a moment to think. Richard had served his brother Edward these past twenty years, had even been prepared to give up the woman he loved to keep his brother’s throne secure. Had Parliament been foolish to believe that Richard’s loyalty would die with Edward? He forced himself to meet Richard’s eyes. “I think, my lord, that under the circumstances you should ask yourself how you can best repay your brother’s trust in you.”

Only long training kept Richard still in that moment. He wanted to spring up, to pace around the little chamber, but he was loath to betray his thoughts in such a manner. This was the point where he had trapped himself in logic, blundering like a hunted boar into a net. He had reached this point hundreds of times, but he could not puzzle out a solution. Richard had sought Shaw’s counsel primarily due to the man’s religious training—surely he could find the answer that Richard himself could not. Keeping his voice carefully level, he posed the question: “Is it not a betrayal of his trust if I should fail to honor his wishes? Do I not perjure my soul by breaking the promises I made to him who was my king and, more importantly, my kinsman?”

Shaw caught his breath. This was the crux of the matter, he could see; this was the reason for Richard’s hesitance. If he could answer persuadingly in this moment, Shaw would deliver the next king of England to his throne—but it would never do for him to treat the question lightly, not while Richard, clutching his goblet as though it might escape his hand, awaited Shaw’s response with such an openly anxious expression. “My lord Gloucester,” Shaw began carefully, “you ask these questions because you know that your brother gave his trust to the wrong people. The Woodvilles, the Stanleys, the Earl of Northumberland—they are not friends to the House of York, and you know it well. They have betrayed Edward’s trust already, by trying to keep you from your nephew despite your brother’s last wishes. What is more, your nephew was raised among these people; the boy trusts them. He does not trust you. If things remain as they are, you will still be unable to honor your brother’s wishes, because his son will never heed your advice.”

He chanced a look at Richard now, half-afraid he had gone too far, but Richard was listening thoughtfully, with no visible sign of anger. Using his most authoritative tone, only just distinguishable from his preaching voice, Shaw continued, “You are clever, my lord, and cautious as well, but you are only one man and your enemies outnumber you. Eventually, they will overcome your defenses, and then you will be beyond honoring anyone’s wishes. I think that in this case, you will do better to honor the spirit of your brother’s wishes. By accepting the crown, you will preserve the country your brother loved so well.”

The two men sat in silence for long minutes after Shaw had finished speaking. Finally Richard rose and extended a hand to his guest. “Thank you very much for coming, Dr. Shaw. You’ve given me a great deal to think about, and now I think I shall have to ask you to leave. I believe this decision must be mine alone.”

**Servant of England: October 31, 1483**

The king’s bedchamber was empty when Francis Lovell came in to turn down the bed, so he went silently about his familiar chamberlain routine: warming pan between the sheets, empty the privy-pot, straighten papers on the writing-table, remove warming pan so as not to scorch the royal toes, turn down blankets invitingly. All that remained now was to coax Richard into bed, and then Francis could seek out his own cot in the antechamber.

Of course, there was no telling when Richard would return from whatever had sent him out to the Tower, and convincing the man to sleep was no easy task—not even for Francis, who had known Richard more than half his life. He thought of Richard riding through the streets in the chill night air, cloak dripping from the steady hissing rain, and shivered in sympathy and moved over to the hearth, kneeling to stoke the fire.

Behind him the door flew open, letting in a draught that caused the flames to leap higher into the chimney. Francis rose to smile at Richard, but the look on his friend’s face froze him where he stood. “Why, Dick,” he exclaimed, “whatever is the matter? Are you ill?” 

Richard, his eyes burning fever-bright in a flushed face, shook his head. “I’m well enough.” He closed the door tightly behind him and strode across the chamber, catching Francis’ wrist in a crushing grip. “I need your advice, and no one must know that I’ve told you this, not ever—swear you won’t say anything, Frank.”

“I swear, you know I swear. Tell me what’s happened.”

“It’s Buckingham,” Richard said. “I should never have trusted him, Francis. He’s done something awful.”

“Ah,” Francis said. He steered Richard toward the bed and began unlacing his shirtsleeves. “The wardrobe will have fits, you know; you’ve gotten your sleeves all spattered with muck.” He dropped the damp clothes to the floor, pushed Richard back onto the bed, and knelt to remove his boots. “What could be more awful than trying to help Tudor onto the throne? I should have thought even Buckingham would have some difficulty topping that one.”

“Oh no,” Richard said, his voice quiet and unhappy. “It’s worse, much worse. He’s killed Edward’s sons.”

The boot slid suddenly over Richard’s heel and Francis tumbled backward, shocked fingers leaving marks in the soft wet leather. “He’s killed—Dick, how could he possibly have killed them?”

Richard’s hands shook as he pushed Francis aside and removed the other boot himself. “It was my fault. I was a fool; I made him constable of England—he had access to the Tower, and I knew it; I used to have the office myself. I never thought—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Francis said loyally. “And the reason you never thought is because you trusted him, and you trusted him because he never gave you a reason not to.”

But the king of England did not speak again until Francis had peeled off his hose and tucked him into bed. “No one must know they’re dead. I dare not speak with Buckingham again; find some excuse to go to the Tower tomorrow and tell him he’s never to speak of it. Not to a guard, not even to his confessor.” He turned his face to the wall and added, in Richard of Gloucester’s voice, “I can’t confess it either.”

Francis looked at him, concerned. “But you are blameless, Dick; you had no part in this.”

Richard’s voice was harsh. “I misjudged Buckingham badly. I did not look in on my nephews as frequently as I should have. I know that a murder has been committed, and I am going to say nothing of it because if I do, the kingdom will fall apart. If I announce Buckingham’s crime, every enemy I possess will spread the word that I had them killed and then executed Buckingham to cover my own crime. I am the best king England can have at the moment, and I will not sacrifice her safety for the sake of my soul; let God decide if I can atone for my sins in the course of my rule.” He pulled the blankets over his head. “Go away, Francis. Let me alone.”

Hastily, Francis gathered up Richard’s discarded clothes and headed for the door. He stepped out into the antechamber and pulled the door closed behind him. His little cot stood invitingly in the corner, but Francis did not go to it. Instead, he sat down with his back against the door. Richard’s voice could be heard faintly from inside his chamber; Francis made out the words “Ned,” “sorry,” “failed,” before he turned his mind to other matters. He did not know how to ease Richard’s mind, but he would do his best to protect his king’s privacy.

**Servant of God: August 21, 1485**

Richard knelt in the middle of a small but well-appointed tent, running the beads of his rosary between sword-calloused fingers. It had been years since he had last felt the need to make a ritual prayer before battle, but this, he knew, would be the last major battle of his career. He’d already negotiated peace with Scotland, and although France backed Henry Tudor’s claim to the English throne, they didn’t dare enter into an open war. If Richard won tomorrow’s battle, the Tudor pretender would be executed, and the House of York would rule England without further threat.

Winning this battle would be difficult, Richard knew, and he grieved for the men who would undoubtedly die in the effort. Tudor had a large army, and in order to gain the advantage of numbers Richard had been forced to rely on the aid of Lord Stanley and Henry Percy. The latter had never liked Richard, and Stanley was Tudor’s stepfather; either or both might change sides tomorrow and there was nothing Richard could do about that knowledge except pray.

So he was on his knees, begging favors from a God who had lately appeared to turn his back on the family of York. Richard whispered to himself the familiar words: “ _Libera, Domine, animam servi tui ex omnibus periculis inferni…_ ”

Richard was not, particularly, afraid to die. He had seen battle, after all; the dangers of Hell could be no worse than the iron smell of swords and slaughter, or the sight of his father and brother’s bodies, lying in state at Fotheringhay Castle while their heads rested on pikes some hundred miles away at London Bridge. What Richard feared was disappointing the God he had always tried to serve. His mother’s voice sounded in his ear with a familiar childhood refrain: “You must do your best at all times, Dickon, for God, for your family, and for your honor. No one can ask more of you than your best.” Well, Richard had done his best, for God and family and honor and England, and he would do it again tomorrow. He added a prayer that his mother, safe in her convent, might be proud of him regardless of what happened on the morrow.

Next came the prayers of remembrance: for Anne, his own heart’s love, and for their little son Edward. For his brother George, who despite his many crimes had once taught Richard his first lessons of courage and honor. For his nephews, the sons Edward had entrusted to Richard’s care; he had failed to protect them as well as he should have. And finally for Edward himself, the splendid noble brother who had trusted Richard with his life and his crown, and whom Richard still dared to hope he had not betrayed too badly. 

There should be candles for these prayers, but candles, he knew, were too risky in this tent, and so Richard contented himself by adding another coal to the little brazier that provided his light. Then, safe among the ghosts of his family, he addressed himself once again to God, praying for the grace he’d tried his whole life to earn. “ _…libera me a malo,_ ” he concluded softly. “ _Amen._ ”


End file.
